The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Before suppertime,” Story said, “I think old Bill will have a surprise for all of you, and eventually an even bigger surprise for our Colonel Carrington.”

  Bill Petty and Arch Rainey tied their horses at the rail and went into the store.

  “You shouldn’t be here more than an hour, Arch,” said Petty. “I’ll be out front. When we ride away, give us a little while before you leave.”

  The days had become short, and purple shadows had already begun to dress the Big Horns for approaching night. Alicia’s place wasn’t far from the store, but she would have to pass half a dozen other cabins to reach the horse he had waiting for her. He wasn’t as concerned about getting the girl past the sentry at the gate as having her safely away from the other cabins from which meddling officers’ wives might be watching. Even in the chill of evening Bill Petty had begun to sweat. Finally he saw her coming, taking her time, and as she drew nearer, he had to admit she was convincing. Her hair had been stuffed into the old hat, and it was down to her eyes. The Levi’s fit, and the shirt had been altered just enough. She had even managed to darken her hands and her face. Over her arm she carried a heavy coat, something Petty had forgotten. Petty mounted his horse, and without seeming to notice him, she mounted the other. The stockade was in shadows when the sentry opened the gate for them to depart. They rode on, Bill Petty half expecting to hear the sentry’s order to halt. But it didn’t come, and they rode over the hill, past the stand of pines that concealed the horse Arch would ride. Just to be sure, Petty chose a path that would take them near the picketed horse.

  “By God,” Petty said, “I should have expected that.”

  “What is it?” Alicia asked.

  “The damn Sioux took the horse I left for Arch. I have to get you to camp and ride back with a horse for Arch.”

  Without difficulty they reached camp, and Petty helped Alicia to dismount. The riders, those who weren’t circling the herd, were waiting for the surprise Story had said Bill Petty had in store.

  “Nels,” Petty said, “this is Alicia Blackburn. Alicia, this is Nelson Story, and this is his trail drive. He knows about you and will introduce you to the riders. Nels, cuss me for a damn fool, if you want. I left the horse for Arch practically within sight of the fort, but the Sioux got it. I got to meet Arch with a horse. He’ll have my hide if he has to hoof it from the fort.”

  “Get riding, pronto,” Story said. “With the Sioux out there, it may already be too late. Bud, you and Quickenpaugh ride with him.”

  “I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” Alicia said.

  “Not your fault,” said Story. “Bill should have known better.”

  The rest of the riders had gathered around, and briefly Story told them of Alicia’s predicament, and finally of Bill Petty’s decision to take her to Virginia City.

  “Good for Bill,” Lorna said. “Alicia, come with Jasmine, Curly, and me. We’ll find us a place to talk.”

  Story was thankful for Lorna’s fast thinking, for he had enough on his mind. His primary concern was for Arch Rainey and the three riders who had gone to meet him. At any moment he expected the hear the crash of gunfire in the direction of the fort. But there was only silence, and Story began to feel better. In a little more than three hours he would give the order to move out the longhorns and take the Bozeman Trail north.

  Bill Petty rode hard, Bud McDaniels and Quickenpaugh right behind him. Petty was furious with himself. Story was put out with him, and with good reason. Only a damn eastern tenderfoot would have picketed a horse in Sioux country, expecting to find it when he returned. Petty had to admit he had been distracted by Alicia Blackburn and his decision to rescue her, but why hadn’t Arch Rainey said something? They reached the pines where the Sioux had taken the horse, and there was no sign of Arch.

  “Yonder he is,” Bud said.

  He had started up the hill and was almost invisible in the approaching darkness and the shadow of the Big Horns. The three rode to meet him, Petty leading the extra horse. Arch mounted without invitation, and the four set out for camp. Story’s relief was obvious when they rode in unharmed. Bill Petty went looking for Alicia and found her with Curly, Lorna, and Jasmine.

  “We’re lookin’ out for her, Bill,” said Jasmine.

  “Thanks,” Petty said. “Alicia, will you be riding a horse, or one of the wagons?”

  “Sandy Bill asked me to ride with him,” said Alicia, “and I think I will. At least for a while.”

  That settled, Petty went in search of Nelson Story. He half expected Story to reprimand him for his foolishness in leaving a horse for the Sioux to steal, but Story didn’t mention the incident.

  “She’s a beautiful woman, Bill,” Story said. “Now all we have to do is get her, ourselves, the herd, and these five wagons far enough from Fort Phil Kearny that Colonel Carrington won’t feel safe coming after us.”

  Story waited until taps sounded from the vicinity of the fort. Then, with Sandy Bill’s wagon taking the lead, the horse remuda following, the longhorns again took the trail north. Recalling the times the Sioux had swept away portions of the herd where it was the least protected, Story had designated four outriders. Their sole duty was to continually ride the length of the drive, protecting the wagons and the riders tending the cattle. Cal and Quickenpaugh kept mostly to the rear, should the Sioux single out one or more of the freight wagons. The drive moved slowly, Story scouting ahead, seeking to avoid terrain that wouldn’t accommodate the wagons. A sliver of moon seemed to hang suspended from its upper horn, and in the light from millions of stars, the land was deceptively peaceful. With Quickenpaugh and Cal riding near the freight wagons, Story had reduced the drag to four riders. Throughout the drive, except for the incident at the river crossing, Jasmine and Lorna had ridden drag safely and effectively. Now Curly rode with them, and to the trio, Story always added one man. Tonight Quanah Taylor rode with them. Far away a coyote howled, and more distant, another answered.

  “I’ve heard that Indians imitate coyotes,” Lorna said.

  “They do,” said Curly, “but you can tell if it’s a real coyote. There’s no echo. Them you just heard was real.”

  Cal caught up to the drag, talked to Quanah Taylor for a few minutes, and dropped back with Quickenpaugh.

  “It’s getting awful cold, especially at night,” Lorna said. “Does any of you know how many more rivers we’ll have to cross?”

  “Tom says just the Yellowstone,” said Jasmine, “but he says we’ll have to cross some lesser streams too.”

  “I dread the river crossings more than the Sioux,” Lorna said. “The others were cold enough. By the time we reach the Yellowstone, it may be just solid ice.”

  “I hope it is,” said Curly. “We can just walk across.”

  The night dragged on. Shortly after first light the drive reached a stream and Story called a halt for breakfast. Sandy Bill kept the fire as small as he could, sheltering it in an old buffalo wallow. The four freight wagons had been brought close, so that the herd, the horses, and all of the wagons could be more easily protected. The teamsters—Jubal, Handy, Levi, and Waddy—made no secret of their liking for Sandy Bill’s cooking. Story paused for a word with Waddy Summers.

  “How far are we away from the fort, Waddy?”

  “Not more’n six or seven miles, Nels. You aim to spend the day here or move on?”

  “We’re moving on,” Story said. “I’d like to get a few more miles between us and Carrington. Even then the damn fool may send soldiers after us.”

  After breakfast they again took the trail, and the longhorns showed their displeasure by trying to break loose, to graze. Riders no longer were able to slump comfortably in their saddles. Instead they swung their doubled lariats, swatting longhorn rumps, forcing the brutes back into an unwilling column. The herd trudged on, bawling, breaking away at the least opportunity. The longhorns finally settled down only when they became too exhausted to break away, but that didn’t lessen their mournful lowing.


  “Damn,” said Bud McDaniels, “we might as well of sent a rider ahead, blowin’ a horn. With this racket, every Injun in two hundred miles will know we’re comin’.”

  “The Sioux have known since we left the fort last night,” Manuel Cardenas said. “Those who may not know already are being told.”

  Bud looked to the north, where Manuel pointed, and was barely able to see the dirty gray of the “talking smoke” against the blue of the early morning sky. He turned and looked to the south, and there was a second smoke.

  “You’re right,” said Bud. “What’n hell are they waitin’ for?”

  “They seek to wear us down,” Manuel said, “until we are firing at the shadows, at sounds we think we have heard, perhaps at one another.”

  After three grueling days, Story estimated they were still not more than twenty-five miles from Fort Phil Kearny, and while that lessened the chance that Carrington would send troops after them, it did nothing to diminish the frequency of the daily columns of “talking smoke.”

  There were nights that Alice Blackburn had Bill Petty saddle a horse for her, and she rode with him as he circled the herd. Petty found himself drawn more and more to her, and he believed she felt the same way about him. He waited, not always patiently, for some sign that she was considering making her life part of his own. He told her little about his life, or of his plans when they reached Virginia City. He wanted her to care enough to ask, and finally she did.

  “Bill, what will you do when you reach Virginia City?”

  “Stake me a claim on as much Montana grass as I can get my hands on, put me up a cabin, and raise cattle. Two hundred of these longhorns are mine.”

  “Won’t that be terribly hard, just you alone?”

  “Most of the riders from Story’s drive will be needing work,” Petty said. “I reckon I can use a couple of them. Just startin’, they may be more than I can afford to pay.”

  “You’ll need a cook.”

  “I can’t afford a cook,” he said.

  “I can cook and keep house. That’s about all I can do.”

  “You’re looking for a job, then,” said Petty. “I said I’d put you up in a hotel until—”

  “Bill,” she began, and her voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She had reined up, and he sidestepped his horse over next to hers.

  “When we reach Virginia City, you have nowhere else to go, do you?”

  “No,” she said softly. “My parents are dead.”

  “Well,” Petty said, seeking to sound as serious as he could, “I reckon I could sell some of the stock. I could afford to hire you for a while. . . .”

  “No,” she cried, taking him serious. “I . . . I won’t let you do it. I . . . I don’t want much . . . no money. Just a roof over my head . . . and a little food. That’s all I’ve ever had. . . .”

  “You’re not looking for a job, then,” said Petty, still assuming his dead serious role. “What you want is a position, and I reckon I can help you there. You do all the cleaning and cooking, cut hay, wrassle cows when you have to, and all the other miserable, low-down things that always need doin’ around a ranch that I’ll never get done by myself. You get all the beans you can eat, and when there ain’t nothin’ left to do outside, you’ll have a roof over your head. Now this position pays nothin’, but you get half of everything. Especially the work. We share everything.”

  “Even the . . .”

  “Bed,” he finished

  “I want the position,” she said, “but please . . . can we not share the bed for a little while . . . until I . . . I feel right . . . about it?”

  “I won’t push you,” said Petty. “I’ll wait.

  She leaned from the saddle, he met her halfway, and they sealed the bargain. . . .

  Their fifth day on the trail began with overcast skies, and two hours before noon thunder rumbled somewhere beyond the Big Horns. The wind had risen, coming from the northwest, and the temperature had dropped. It had all the earmarks of an early winter storm, and Story rode ahead, seeking a measure of shelter. He found a deep canyon with enough overhang to provide some shelter for the riders, with a tree-lined creek for the longhorns, the horses, and the oxen. By the time Story returned to the herd, freezing rain had begun to fall. Sleet rattled off the crowns and brims of their hats, and a film of ice had begun to coat the cattle and the horses. The wind blew the rain and sleet almost into the faces of the plodding herd, and they wanted only to turn their tails and drift. Riders swung doubled lariats against bovine rumps, forcing the longhorns into the growing storm. They were approaching the canyon on the highest rim, and there was a miserable, time-consuming drive until they reached a point low enough for the herd and the wagons to enter the shelter.

  “Run the herd along the creek,” Story shouted, “and loose the horses and oxen with them.”

  Many of the trees within the canyon were pine, and the foliage did much to dilute the freezing rain and sleet. The animals quickly spread along the creek, taking advantage of the shelter. Sandy Bill and the teamsters had drawn the wagons parallel to the canyon’s overhang, leaving a generous space between the wagons and the canyon wall. Whatever came—even if it was snow—they could survive.

  “Everybody start looking for firewood,” Story ordered. “With all these pines, there ought to be some resinous logs. Drag them in, as many as you can find. It’s going to be almighty cold come dark.”

  The snow began before dark, and by the time the first watch saddled up, they couldn’t even see the cattle for the blowing snow. Lorna rode with Cal, and little had been said since the start of the snow. They well remembered Story’s warnings regarding snow on the high plains. For the moment, they had their backs to the wind, and Lorna spoke.

  “From what Mr. Story’s said about snow here in the high country, we may be stuck in this canyon until spring.”

  “I reckon not,” Cal said. “Won’t be enough firewood to last a week.”

  Cattle always tended to drift with the storm, and this was no exception. Some of the herd had begun wandering down the canyon, and Cal was the first to see them. He kicked his horse into a gallop, Lorna right behind him. They circled, got ahead of the half a dozen drifting longhorns, and it took a supreme effort to head the animals. Finally they were driven back up the canyon, resisting every foot of the way, for they were heading into the storm. Sandy Bill kept the coffee hot, and the riders rode in, one or two at a time. Shortly after midnight the wind died and the snow began to diminish. Soon there was only the patter of tiny particles of ice, and in patches of purple sky, stars twinkled.

  “I’ve never seen the like,” said Story. “Unless it clouds over and starts fresh, we’ll be able to move out in the morning.”

  But the dawn brought a crisis none of them had foreseen. Cal Snider was awakened by Jasmine McDaniels shaking him.

  “Cal, Lorna’s gone!”

  Cal sat up, rubbed his eyes, and flung off his blankets. He had only to pull on his boots and grab his hat.

  “I reckon you got no idea how long she’s been gone.”

  “No,” Jasmine said. “I suppose she went to the bushes.”

  “Damn it, why didn’t she just get behind one of the wagons?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jasmine. “Curly was going looking for her, but I wouldn’t let her. If there’s tracks, it would only confuse things.”

  “Good thinking,” Cal said.

  Curly was waiting, Waddy Summers with her. The teamster had gone back to his wagon for something.

  “We’d best get on her trail,” said Summers. “Might already be too late.”

  Cal was thinking the same thing, and when he made Story aware of the situation, Story wasted no time.

  “The Sioux,” Story said. “Take Quickenpaugh with you. If you’re greatly outmanned, don’t try anything foolish. One of you ride back for help.”

  Cal and Quickenpaugh had no trouble finding where Lorna had been taken. First there were only her footprints, then signs of a
scuffle, and finally a set of moccasined footprints that led to where an unshod horse had been waiting. Cal allowed Quickenpaugh to take the trail, and he followed. Once out of the canyon, the trail swung back to the north, toward the Big Horns. Eventually Quickenpaugh reined up, and leaning from the saddle, studied the trail. When Cal caught up to him, he learned why the Indian had paused. There now were tracks of four unshod ponies.

  “Four of the Sioux varmints,” said Cal.

  “Tres,” Quickenpaugh said. “Squaw ride.”

  There were now three Sioux, and that was bad enough, but there might be still more. Quickenpaugh rode on, Cal following. Story’s warning was strong on his mind, but his concern for Lorna was stronger. Riding back to camp would cost them an hour or more, and he feared Lorna might not have that much time. They were nearing the foothills of the Big Horns. The mountains appeared stately from a distance, but as Quickenpaugh and Cal drew nearer, the peaks looked formidable. While Cal didn’t for a moment doubt Quickenpaugh’s bravery or his expertise on the trail, the two of them were at a great disadvantage, for this was unfamiliar country. These mountains were the home of the Sioux, however, and they would know every rock and crevice. Again Quickenpaugh had reined up, and Cal could see no reason for it. The trail—that of four horses—continued along the rise, into a stand of pines, and apparently to a first plateau beyond.

  “Emboscada,” Quickenpaugh said.*

  “Damn it,” said Cal impatiently, “how are we gonna get to the bastards?”

  Quickenpaugh said nothing, but rode on toward the pines at the start of the foothills. Doubtfully, Cal followed. But Quickenpaugh didn’t actually enter the stand of pines into which the beckoning trail led. He rode along the rise toward the south, where he couldn’t be seen from the plateau above the first stand of pines. A mile to the south the pines thinned out, and it was here that Quickenpaugh began his ascent. The way was steep, rough, and they were forced to dismount, leading their horses. Reaching the shelf—the first plateau above the forested foothills—they rode warily to the north. Reaching the point where the trail they were following should have emerged from the belt of pines below, there were no tracks.